2: In Which She Gets Made

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2: In Which She Gets Made

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The North-Eastern European principality of Ruslavia is located somewhere between Russia and Estonia. The major languages are: Ruslavic, Russian, Latvian, German and English. Heavily populated for such a small country, it has been a monarchy since the days of tsars and tsarinas – plus, the Alvonich royal family has always consisted of a bunch of autocratic pricks and PETA-offenders.

OK, the last part wasn’t a Wiki fact; no, it was purely a genuine Devin-Shaw piece of heavily-biased opinion, offered to me once we’d settled into the plush interior of the stark-white limousine that was ferrying us from the Alvonich private landing strip. I’d spent the nine hours in the morning sky from JFK through the star-studded Russian sky to the airport of Sheremetyevo, plus an additional one hour in a private jet into Ruslavia, Googling what I didn’t know about the country – which was a lot. Making no bones that he was here under duress, my father had peered at my phone and loudly aired his disparaging opinion of our hosts for the week.

Glancing nervously at the tinted glass dividing the back seat from the driver’s seat, I shoved my phone back into my pocket. Insulting the Ruslavian royal family would definitely be considered treason, especially since my father and I were going to be VIP guests at a royal wedding taking place in a week’s time.

“PETA-offenders?” I said, raising a questioning brow.

“King Mikhail has been known to wear real animal fur,” he muttered, scowling like a child who’d been personally wronged. “I know it gets cold out here, but imitation fur can be just as…warm.”

Shaking my head and hiding a smile, I couldn’t help but marvel at the man my father was. He never ceased to amaze me. Every year, he had a different cause to believe in and every year, he made me prouder to know him.

“It’s true that Mikhail’s dad is an ass,” I began in a low voice, still paranoid about the nameless driver overhearing our treasonous dialogue, “but Dad, for just this one week, please be on your best behaviour.”

He scowled at me, looking like a big five-year-old, if five-year-olds favoured slacks and golf shirts. “Of course, Cesar Milan,” he said, his face so stoic that I couldn’t help laughing.

“You're absolutely ridiculous. Not even an animal whisperer can tame you.”

My father snorted, turning to look out the window. Now that the sun was slowly inching over the Ruslavian horizon, we were finally able to take in the beautiful, snowy landscape. The foggy, snow-covered expanse stretched for what seemed like miles and miles and naked trees stood sentry along the tar road like bare soldiers. It was easy to see the appeal of places like this. It was so peaceful, so untouched.

Thirty minutes later, the castle came into view at the peak of a hill, overlooking the rest of the capital, and I experienced a mini jolt of déjà vu. Clenching my fists, I pulled myself together. I was no longer that disillusioned, naïve eighteen-year-old who’d thought rebound sex with a prince was the best way to get over a broken heart. Months later, I realised that I hadn’t even loved Kyros and that my alleged heartbreak probably had everything to do with my fantasies of what love was like.

I blame Rory for that, I thought, a wry smile tugging at my lips. After a rocky early childhood, I’d had my head filled with English romanticism and fairytales and flowers when she came along; things she couldn’t possibly have believed in herself – until she fell in love with my father, of course.

“What are you grinning about, gorgeous?”

The man in question’s voice cut through my jetlagged reverie. “Is smiling a crime now?” I stuck my tongue out at him, laughing when he shot me a dark look.

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